The Officially Unofficial Novelization
by Mooks
Summary: Yup, the title pretty much says it all. It's a strict movie to book adaptation of the 2004 movie. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading what I found in the characters' minds as much as I enjoyed prying their thoughts out of them.
1. Public Auction

Author's Note:

_Alas, that I would owneth any small measure of Phantom of the Opera. But fate hath deemed that I shouldst only draw from Sir Webber's great inspiration. Ergo, I dain not to possess even an iota of my lord's masterpiece. _

_Okay, okay-skip the poetics and jump straight to legal talk. Everything having to do with Phantom of the Opera is Andrew Lloyd Webber's, Warner Brother's, Gaston Leroux's, Joel Schumaucer's, and/or pretty much everyone else's but mine. However, the way I'm putting this story together is from my twisted crazy mind, so don't steal it! growls Please. _

Paris, France 1919

Though it was but a distant memory, Raoul remembered what the Opera Populaire looked like in its days of glory-then, it had been a brilliant architectural masterpiece, a place teeming with life. But time had been cruel to the theatre, and now it stood crumbling and desolate on its foundations.  
Raoul now regretted his decision to come to the public auction, but ever since his nurse had read the announcement that morning in the newspaper, he knew that forces larger than himself were at work. Somehow, it was his duty to be there. If nothing else, perhaps he would find some closure to those emotion-ridden days of 1870. Here, in the final chapter of his life, he deserved at least that much peace.  
Allowing his chauffeur to open the door of the town car, the driver then settled Raoul into his wheelchair. The driver arranged Raoul's lifeless legs in the rests while Raoul's nurse covered his lap with a cashmere blanket.   
Raoul, though, took no notice of their ministrations, nor did he pay attention as they wheeled him up the long ramp into the theatre. It seemed everywhere he let his gaze fall, a new memory arose, each one bringing back feelings he'd thought long buried.  
Dust filtered down from the rafters, and Raoul absently noted how the motes danced in the air. In the distance, an auctioneer's gavel banged down, the sound echoing through the fire-ravaged opera house.   
"Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen; a poster for this house's production of Hannibal by Chalumeau." The wheelchair rolled to a stop in the auditorium where a small podium was set up, ironically enough on the old stage. A porter stood next to the auctioneer, displaying items as they came up for bid. "Showing here," he said, indicating a large poster with "La Carlotta" emblazoned on it.  
"Do I have ten francs?" the auctioneer inquired, glancing about at the few that had ventured to the auction. Most were hawkers and junk collectors, and stingy ones at that. They shuffled their feet on the dirty floor and refused the offer.  
The auctioneer compromised. "Five, then. Five I am bid. Six, seven. Against you, sir, seven. Eight? Selling once, selling twice. Sold, to Monsieur Deferre. Thank you very much, sir." He let his gavel fall with an empty thunk. They continued in such a manner, selling miscellaneous props from productions that had once been the talk of Paris.  
Raoul let his attention wander to the crowd, when he felt eyes upon him. He immediately picked out a stanch, older woman, with a noble bearing about her. Raoul recognized her at once as Madame Giry, the former ballet mistress of the Opera Populaire. Even now, the past years of intense training kept her in good health, while he sat shriveling in his wheelchair.  
Such is Fate's sense of justice, Raoul mused. She tried to catch his gaze, but he looked away, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. There were many secrets between them, dark ones that had cut deeply, and left unhealing wounds.  
The next item was introduced and his attention snapped quickly back to the auction. "Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen. May I commence at 15 francs?"  
Raoul's heart leapt in his chest, but before he could raise his hand to bid, Madame Giry cut in. "15, thank you," the auctioneer acknowledged.  
With a nudge from Raoul, his nurse quickly took up his bidding. "Yes, 20 from you sir, thank you very much."  
The biding toggled between Madame Giry and Raoul for a few turns before settling at 30 francs. "And 35?" the auctioneer inquired of Giry.  
She hesitated for an instant to send a glance Raoul's way. She observed him for a moment, and then her stern countenance seemed to soften. With a minute shake of her head to the auctioneer, she put an end to it.  
A numb shock coursed through Raoul as Madame Giry's decision settled into his mind. That she would allow him to receive the music box that they both valued so dearly shook him to the core. Thousands of emotions ran through him, moving too quickly for him to name them.  
The auctioneer pounced on the opportunity to move the auction on. "Selling at 30 francs, then. 30 once, 30 twice…" He slammed his gavel down. "Sold for 30 francs to the Vicomte de Changy. Thank you, sir."  
The porter handed the music box to Raoul after receiving payment from the Vicomte's driver. Raoul shot a glance at Madame Giry, and he hoped that the gratitude showed in his eyes. Then he allowed himself to study the music box he held in his hands.  
"A collector's piece indeed. Every detail exactly has she said." He let the song float through his mind as the memories rose anew. "Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?"  
Once again his musings were interrupted by the auctioneer's announcements. "Lot 666, then. A chandelier in pieces." Raoul's gaze, along with everyone else's, was inexplicably drawn to the enormous light fixture that lay covered by canvas on the floor. "Some of you may recall the strange affair of the phantom of the opera, a mystery never fully explained. We're told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it, and wired parts of it with the new electric light."  
The porter and a handful of other workers approached the covered chandelier, locating the ropes and pulleys that would free it of its cover. The auctioneer continued, his voice faintly mysterious and questioning. "Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen?"  
The workers jerked off the canvas, and with a flash, the chandelier blazed brilliantly. With hardly any effort at all, Raoul pictured what the theatre had looked like 50 years ago.  
With every inch that the chandelier rose, it seemed another layer of dust blew off the décor and balconies. As each light winked in its holder, he could once again see the seats in their former glory, the wood gleaming and the upholstery plush and velvety. The stage was polished to a glossy finish, and high above, the statues that adorned the theatre were once again pristine. In his mind's eye, everything looked exactly as it had that fall day in 1870, when he had first arrived at the Opera Populaire.  
The Vicomte de Changy allowed the memories to overtake him.


	2. Overture

Paris, France, 1870

The magnificent theatre gleamed in the Parisian sun, the light glinting off the brilliant marble structure. The sun kissed the statues of Pegasus that adorned the roof, making it seem as though they strained against their bases in an attempt to take flight. A large queue of people lined the theatre, chatting and milling about as they waited to buy tickets.

Firmin stepped out of his carriage, never letting his eyes stray from the building before him. He settled his hat on his head as his business partner, Andre, alighted from the carriage after him. The former manager, Lefevre, strode toward them. They made their greetings and quickly entered the theatre.

The Opera Populaire teemed with life. Everywhere Firmin looked, people were plying their trades. Ballerinas warmed up at the bar, sculptors etched away on props, painters applied yet another coat onto pieces of scenery, and seamstresses stitched yards and yards fabric.

Yes, indeed. The Opera Populaire was the new social hotspot, and it showed. It was a pure stroke of luck that he and his business partner had stumbled upon a so-called gold mine and amassed a substantial amount of money.

In reality, the gold mine was a contract with a shipping company to dispatch their defunct ships, but Richard Firmin was not one to quibble, especially when awaiting a tour of his brand new opera house. By tonight, control of the entire establishment would belong to his partner and himself.

Of course, first they had to get through being introduced to the patron of their new boon, and he supposed he'd have to make a cameo appearance before the cast, but a few formalities were a small price to pay for all the social connections they'd soon be acquiring.

Before Firmin could accustom himself to anything within the theatre, Lefevre hustled himself and Andre off to a side exit where the new patron had arrived.

Raoul de Changy was a handsome man, with a strong jaw and an air of authority about him. He pulled his horses to a stop and dropped to the ground, entrusting his carriage to the stableman.

As the four men entered the auditorium, Firmin could hear piercing, screeching notes and winced. Such was his lot; to own an opera house, one had to listen to opera. He set his teeth and trudged after his comrades.


	3. Hannibal

_I now recall why I despise rehearsals so much_, Madame Giry thought, just as she did every time La Carlotta showed up for the theatre's daily practice sessions.

As Madame Giry hustled her ballet girls down the wrought iron spiral staircase and to the warm-up bar, the prima donna's notes reached a mind-numbingly high pitch. Carlotta's voice quavered, warbled, and trilled, making a general mockery of what should have been a good piece of music.

Madame Giry observed the Diva while the ballet corps warmed up and stretched. Carlotta was in full costume; a billowing crimson shirt and a gold bodice were the main part of the costume, though Giry noticed that Carlotta sported full stage makeup, which for this production was outrageous blue eye shadow and gold glitter everywhere. In her left hand, she held a dummy's severed head.

Carlotta drew a huge breath for her next line. "This trophy from our saviors, from our saviors, from the enslaving force of Rome!"

Madame Giry hid a smile when she saw that a few of the opera house cleaning staff stuffed cotton in their ears to mute the Diva's shrill voice.

The chorus came onto the stage and mercifully took over singing. "With feasting and dancing and song, tonight in celebration, we greet the victorious throng, returned to bring salvation."

Madame Giry had a quick ear for music, and though they had been practicing this particular work for only a few weeks, she already knew every note by heart.

The men's chorus came on next, dressed supposedly like Carthinian soldiers, but Madame Giry doubted the authenticity of their costumes, which were gaudy and frivolous for the production. "The trumpets of Carthage resound, hear Romans, now and tremble. Hark to our step on the ground! Hear the drums-Hannibal comes!"

The chorus died away, and a male voice took prominence. "Sad to return to find the land we love, threatened by Roma's far-reaching grasp."

_Ah, Monsieur Piangi_, Madame Giry thought, bending down to grasp the toes of her slippers in a fluid stretch. While his voice was not perfect, it was bearable, much more so than his wife's, at least. How the man abided being married to Carlotta, Madame Giry never knew.

Suddenly, the orchestra fell out of sync, and Madame Giry straightened to see Monsieur Lefevre leading three strange men onto the stage.

Monsieur Reyer, the conductor, attempted to settle the orchestra. "Er, gentlemen, gentlemen, er…"

Monsieur Lefevre's voice cut in over his. "This way. Rehearsals as you see are underway for a new production of Chalumeau's _Hannibal_."

Flicking her braid over her shoulder, Madame Giry smiled as she heard Reyer's exasperated cry. "Monsieur Lefevre, I am rehearsing!"

She always appreciated the conductor's bluntness, so much like her own. They had both been at the opera house for years, outlasting patrons, managers, and performers all. Rank certainly had its privileges, and in this case, it allowed them to speak a bit more freely than those beneath them.

Lefevre made a placating gesture. "Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, thank you. May I have your attention please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true."

Carlotta, who had been absently fanning herself while she waited for her next cue, snapped her fan shut and slapped it against her palm. "Ah-ha!" she cried triumphantly.

Lefevre, used to her dramatics, talked over her. "It is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire; Monsieur Richard Firmin, and Monsieur Gilles Andre."

Firmin, a tall man, dipped his head a bit, while Andre, who seemed more relaxed, ventured a small wave towards the chorus. "I'm sure you've read of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business," Lefevre intoned.

Andre assumed an injured air and sniffed a bit. "Scrap metal, actually," he said indignantly.

Despite the humor of the moment, a shiver ran through Madame Giry, and she glanced up to see a shadow flicker past in the flies_. What are you up to now, Monsieur? _She thought.

Firmin took up the introductions. "And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron-"

"-the Vicomte de Changy!" Andre cut in enthusiastically.

The performers and stage hands burst into spontaneous applause. The Vicomte stepped forward, and Madame Giry heard a gasp behind her.

She turned to see Christine whisper excitedly to Meg. "It's Raoul!" Meg pulled her gaze from the Vicomte to focus on Christine.

"Before my father died, at the house by the sea. I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts…he called me 'Little Lotte'."

Meg squeezed Christine's hand. "Oh, Christine, he's so handsome!"

_Mon poire, must you always be drawn to the boys?_ Madame Giry thought, and shushed both of the girls.

"My parents and I are honored to support all the arts, especially the world renowned Opera Populaire." The Vicomte's speech, though smooth, was betrayed by the discomfort displayed in the young man's movements. Obviously, he was not used to being around Paris' entertainers, who were cut from a rougher sort of cloth.

_We are a strange lot…_ Madame Giry thought. Carlotta pushed to the front to curtsy deeply before the Vicomte. S_ome of us, however, are stranger than others. _

"Vicomte, Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now," Lefevre introduced, as Raoul took Carlotta's hand.

The Diva's maid and seamstress applauded rather obtrusively. Carlotta basked in the attention, but Madame Giry detected more than a drop of mockery in the praise.

A slight cough broke in, and Lefevre gestured towards its owner. "Signore Ubaldo Piangi."

Piangi bowed deeply, and Raoul dipped his head. "An honor, Signore…I believe I'm keeping you from your rehearsal," he said with a glance at Reyer. "I will be here tonight to share in your great triumph. My apologies, Monsieur," he added to the conductor. He turned and started off the stage with Lefevre.

Reyer shook his head. "Thank you, Monsieur La Vicomte." With a raise of his brow and baton, he looked to Piangi. "Once more, if you please, Signore." The orchestra picked up as Piangi found his spot on the stage.

Internalizing many saucy comments about the inter-theatre politics that were swamping the house, Madame Giry turned back to her ballet corps. Raoul pushed past the group, without so much as a glance toward Christine.

Christine swallowed hard. "He wouldn't recognize me," she said. Madame Giry, though, saw the hurt that Christine couldn't rationalize rising as tears.

"He didn't see you," Meg quickly agreed.

Madame Giry's heart ached over the interlude, but their cue had just come. "If you please…" she said, driving the girls of the ballet corps onto the stage.

While she could not comfort them, perhaps dancing could. It was the only thing that had gotten her over her dear husband's death, just a few short months after Meg had been born. She tucked away the thoughts of Claude to be brought out tonight when she could have some privacy. She felt a presence behind her, and glanced over her shoulder. Firmin studied the ballet being performed.

"Monsieur," she acknowledged. "We take particular pride in the excellence of our ballet, Messieurs," she said, noticing Andre had joined them.

He nodded toward Meg. "I can see why-especially that little blonde angel."

"My daughter, Meg Giry," she said mater-of-factly, though it always bothered her to have men leer at Meg.

Meg's honey-gold locks and sweet face, along with her shapely body in provocative ballet costumes attracted fellows of every walk. Madame Giry knew that she could not prevent the stares-such was the life of someone in Paris' entertainment business. Still, she desired to protect her daughter as much as possible.

Firmin spoke now, tentatively, as though he sensed Madame Giry's mother hen instinct was growing every second. "And that exceptional beauty? No relation, I trust?"

Giry look to the girl he indicated. _Ah, of course_, she thought, realizing he was speaking of Christine. "Christine Daaé. Promising talent, Monsieur Firmin, very promising."

A sharp contrast to Meg's fair head, Christine had thick, luscious curls and a sort of unconscious grace and placid beauty about her. Madame Giry supposed that it was both of the girls' air of innocence that attracted men-they had not the hardened look of others in the ballet corps.

"Daaé, you say?" Andre remarked. "No relation to the famous Swedish violinist?"

"His only daughter, orphaned at seven when she came here to live and train in the ballet dormitories," Giry explained succinctly. The ballerinas were beginning to succumb to distraction, thought they knew Giry demanded perfection. How could she, though, when these new managers were badgering her and forcing her to split her own concentration?

"An orphan, you say?" Firmin's comment was colored with an ugly shade of lust. Giry had enough-mangers or no, she was the ballet mistress, and they were disrupting her ballet.

"I think of her as a daughter also. Gentlemen, if you would kindly stand to one side?" She all but shoved them into the wings of the stage.

Madame Giry locked her mind onto the ballet, and studied the dancers. She noted the girls who where slacking, so as to work with them later. Her concentration was once again broken when the cart bearing a mechanical replica of an elephant rolled on. It was at this point that Piangi was suppose to climb aboard it and sing the closing chorus triumphantly, but the rotund singer was experiencing some difficulties with the mounting.

_Perhaps he should lean some agility form my ballet girls,_ she thought wryly.

The fiasco was only worsened by the fact that Carlotta was in her perpetual mood of discontent and was stomping about on the stage. Fortunately, her temper tantrum was for the most part drowned out by the chorus.

"The trumpeting elephants sound, her Romans now, and tremble. Hark to our step on the ground-hear the drums! Hannibal comes!"

Madame Giry breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the ballet girls pulled off their final steps in perfect unison, despite Carlotta's evil glares in their direction.


	4. Falling Star, Rising Star

As soon as the music stopped, the Diva went in for the kill.

"All day! All they want is the dancing!" Carlotta stormed over to where the new managers stood chatting with Lefevre.

"The Vicomte is very excited about tonight's gala," Lefevre commented.

The Diva assumed a mocking, patronizing tone. "Ah, allora, allora, allora."

Madame Giry closed her eyes and breathed a prayer for patience for what would come next. If she was the manager of the Opera Populaire, her first move would be to fire Carlotta and hire a replacement with a much smaller ego.

"I hope he is as excited about dancing girls as your new managers," Carlotta snarled at Lefevre, "Because I will not be singing!" She swept her dress train up dramatically and made her way off the stage with her maids and Piangi in tow.

Andre took on a panic-stricken look. "Lefevre-what do we do?"

"Grovel. Grovel, grovel." Lefevre nudged them toward the wake the Diva had left in her exodus.

They hurried after her, calling as they went. "Signora, please!"

"See you later, because I'm going now. It is finished." Carlotta threw her hand in the air and continued on her way.

"World renowned artist and great beauty…" Firmin began. The thick praise caused Carlotta to pause.

Andre pounced on the opportunity; he and Firmin quickly moved to block her path. "Princespessa, Bella Diva..."

"Si, si, si," Carlotta said vehemently, wagging a finger at them.

"Goddess of song!" Firmin cried.

"Evello!" Carlotta declared.

Madame Giry shook her head. Carlotta always lapsed into an odd dialect of Spanish when she was perturbed, making it difficult to understand her through her already thick accent. These managers, as inexperienced as they were at catering to the Diva, would soon make Carlotta completely unintelligible.

"Monsieur Reyer," Andre began. "Isn't there a rather marvelous aria for Elissa in act three of _Hannibal_? Perhaps the Signora…"

Carlotta made the connection and cut in. "Yes, yes, yes! Ma, no! Because I have not my costume for act three, because somebody not finish it!" She shot a condemning look at her seamstress. "And, I hate my hat!" she exclaimed, gesturing to the ostentatious object in question. She covered her face with her hands and started sobbing, her shoulders heaving.

Firmin spoke in his most soothing tone. "But, I wonder, signora, if as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition? Unless, of course, Monsieur Reyer objects?"

Reyer looked as though he objected very much, from what Madame Giry could see, but Carlotta knew she was the focus of the managers' attention, and was attempting to prolong the moment. She made pathetic sobbing noises and affected to gain control of herself.

With a final sniff and wipe of her eyes, she said meekly, "If my managers command. Monsieur Reyer?"

"If my Diva commands," he said with a sardonic bow.

Carlotta threw her shoulders back. "Yes, I do!" She stalked to the middle of the stage. "Everybody very quiet!" She continued shushing people while Andre questioned Lefevre in undertones.

"Monsieur, why exactly are you retiring?"

"My health," Lefevre replied bluntly.

"I see…." Andre would have said more, but Carlotta chose that moment to deem herself ready for her solo.

Reyer raised his baton. "Signora?"

Carlotta squirted her mouth with a glass vial of singer's throat spray, and handed it off to her maid. "Maestro."

A smooth _dolce_ piano piece came on, the notes swaying back and forth through the air. Then Carlotta broke in, and whatever sweetness the piano had introduced was dissipated by the Diva's high, warbling voice.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye." A flicker of motion brought Madame Giry's eye to the flies above. Instinctively, she stepped closer to where Meg and Christine stood whispering together.

Carlotta, blissfully unaware, continued singing. "Remember me, once in a while; please promise me you'll try. When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free, if you-"

Meg let loose a scream, and Madame Giry looked up just in time to see a backdrop plunging down toward the stage. It crashed on top of Carlotta, brutally knocking her to the polished hardwood floor.

Amongst her sobs and screams, Madame Giry heard Meg's voice. "He's here…the Phantom of the Opera!"

_I am afraid you are right, mi cheri_, she thought, and acting on an impulse that suddenly overtook her, she stepped off the stage into the wings.

Behind her, she heard Lefevre's voice. "Signora! Are you all right? Buquet, for God's sake, what's going on up there?"

Madame Giry turned and looked up to see the stagehand begin turning a crank to raise the backdrop as he spoke. "Please, Monsieur, don't look at me! As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post! Please, Monsieur, there's no one there." His face took on an ugly smirk. "Or if there is, well, then, he must be a ghost."

Madame Giry shuddered at the tone of his voice. She, of all people, didn't judge according to appearances, but she made an exception for Joseph Buquet. He was an ill-kept, filthy oaf of a man, with stringy hair and blood-shot eyes. Her abhorrence of him went beyond his bad hygiene, however. Several times, she had caught him peeping in on her ballet girls as they changed costumes. He was a lecherous, lazy drunkard, and nothing would please her more than to see him lose his situation at the theatre.

She quickly forgot about Buquet, though, when a folded piece of paper edged in black fluttered to the ground at her feet, dropped from above. She shot her gaze upward, hoping to catch a glimpse of its author, but she saw nothing. Her long braid swung over her shoulder as she stooped to pick up the note.

The paper in her hands suddenly felt as if it would burn up. It was sealed with blood-red wax in the shape of a death's head. How many of these missives had she received over the years? And yet they still served to frighten her out of her wits.

Clutching the note, Madame Giry made her way back to the main stage, the others' voices dimly registering with her.

"Signore, please…these things do happen-" Andre started nervously.

Carlotta would have none of it. "For the past three years these things do happen." She turned to Lefevre. "And did you stop them from happening? No!" She pointed an accusing finger at Firmin and Andre. "And you two-you're as bad as him. 'These things do happen!'" She let out a growl and gestured to her chest. "Ma! Until you stop these things from happening, this thing does not happen! Ubaldo! Andiamo! Bring my doggie and my boxy."

With a final angry flourish, Carlotta trotted off the stage. Piangi looked from one manager to another.

"Amateurs," he snorted, and then hastened after his wife.

"Bye, bye and ciao. Now you see, I'm really leaving!" Carlotta's shouts echoed through the theatre, gradually fading away into utter silence.

Lefevre paused for a moment and then bowed. "Gentlemen, good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia."

Lefevre stepped off the stage for the final time. The image of his retreating back would forever be burned on Madame Giry's mind.

Firmin glared at Andre, the look seeming to beg him to do something, _anything._

Andre's shoulders seemed to shrink in his dress coat as he turned to Reyer. "Signore Giudicelli, she will be coming back, won't she?" he said, stuttering slightly.

Sensing an opening, Madame Giry stepped forward before Reyer spoke. "You think so, messieurs?" Andre and Firmin turned to her, curiosity on their faces. "I have a message sir, from the Opera Ghost." She held forth the note.

Firmin groaned and rubbed his brow. "Oh, God in heaven, you're all obsessed."

She opened the letter, keeping her voice and features even. "He welcomes you to his opera house-"

"His opera house?" Firmin cried indignantly.

"-and commands that you continue to leave Box Five empty for his use." She gestured to the box with her cane before going on. "And reminds you that his salary is due." Madame Giry folded the note carefully.

"His salary?" Firmin asked, half incredulous.

"Oui. Monsieur Lefevre paid him 20,000 francs a month," Madame Giry said coolly.

Firmin jerked the note from her hand. "20,000 francs?" he repeated, appalled.

Madame Giry let a note of irony enter her voice. "Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte as your patron?" The ballet girls giggled at her last comment as she stepped indifferently toward them.

"Madame, I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala," Firmin said, a warning in his voice. "Obviously, we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have lost our star!" He tore the note in his hand in half, then in half again in his agitation.

"Surely there must be an, an," Andre grasped for the word, which a chorus member helpfully provided. "An understudy!"

Reyer mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "Understudy? There is no understudy for _La Carlotta_!"

"A full house, Andre, we shall have to refund a full house!" Firmin declared frantically. A pregnant pause ensued, while the managers stewed and Madame Giry struggled internally.

She didn't want to overstep her bounds, yet surely the Opera Ghost hadn't disposed of the Diva so thoroughly for no reason. Her mind made up, she raised her chin a fraction.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir," she said, laying a hand on the girl's arm. Christine looked bewildered and slightly anxious, but didn't argue.

"What, a chorus girl?" Andre scoffed. "Don't be silly."

"She has been taking lessons from a great teacher." Madame Giry felt a certain rebellious audacity course thorough her, and the feeling strengthened the notion that this was the time for Christine's singing to be brought forward.

Andre wasn't convinced. "Oh? Who?" he said, quirking a gray brow.

"I don't know his name, Monsieur," Christine replied hesitantly.

Madame Giry wrapped an arm around Christine's shoulders, willing the strength she felt into the young woman. "Let her sing for you, Monsieur. She has been well taught."

"All right," Andre conceded, and motioned for Christine. "Come along, don't be shy…come on, come along. Just, just…"

Reyer by now had settled himself in the orchestra pit and taken up his baton again. "From the beginning of the aria, then mam'selle," he intoned.

"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves," Firmin whispered to his partner.

"Oh, she's very pretty," Andre placated.

_All Christine has to do is open her mouth and let the music come from within, and all will be pleased._ Madame Giry glanced at the shreds of the Opera Ghost's note. _If he thinks she is ready, then she is_.

The piano began its introduction the same as it had for Carlotta, but when Christine drew a breath to sing, her notes only created more beauty to the song being played.

Her voice was as clear as a crystal goblet, and yet strong and unwavering as a boulder of granite. It was her tone, though, that made one pause and listen for the sheer enjoyment of hearing it. True, he had taught her for a few years now, but she had been born with the clarity with which she now sang.

"Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me, once in a while; please promise me you'll try. When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free, if you ever find a moment, spare at thought for me."

Madame Giry didn't often show her daughter affection in public, but she couldn't contain herself this time, and she stroked Meg's golden locks. They had crossed the Rubicon, and now neither Christine's nor the Girys' lives would be the same.

Though Madame Giry knew she had played a major part in bringing about the changes they faced, she felt a certain peace that didn't often visit her. For now, it was enough to lose herself in Christine's voice.

She only hoped that she had done the right thing-the right thing for Christine, and the right thing for her daughter. Most of all, though, she hoped she had done the right thing for him.


	5. Think of Me

Think of Me

The afternoon was a flurry of activity for Christine among rushed rehearsals, reviewing the score, and other last minute details. Yet, here she stood before a full house, in a position in which she never thought to be. She, an orphaned ballet rat, had the star role during a gala performance to be given before Paris' high society. Rumor had it that even Emperor Louis Napoleon III and his wife had turned out for the opera by Chalumeau, along with countless other nobles and wealthy citizens.

Christine tried to quell the nervousness beginning to bubble up inside of her. High above in the balconies, a hot spotlight shone in her eyes and blurred her vision, obliterating the audience. She could hear them, though; the sounds of their hushed whispers and rustling skirts and waistcoats came rushing up at her like waves in the ocean, thanks to the supreme acoustics of the theatre.

Clinging to the idea that his spirit was with her, she took a tiny step forward. The full skirt and train of her gown dragged across the stage behind her, tugging heavily on her hips. The gossamer fabric was a brilliant white, with starbursts of crystal sewn meticulously on the gown at regular intervals. Crystals in the same starburst shape hung from her ears and lay nestled in her thick curls. The tight bodice and off-the-shoulder sleeves emphasized her slender form, but did nothing to increase her comfort. She had never worn such a fine garment-only the cheap costumes of the ballet corps and her own simple dresses. She felt gorgeous, but she also had the sensation of being someone else.

Then she remembered how she felt when he taught her, and how his presence would wrap itself around her, bringing peace that would last for days on end. Memories of his whispers echoed through her mind, and she once again felt that peace. Christine carefully recalled every single thing he had taught her and wove his training into the song that glided from her lips.

"We never said our love was evergreen or as unchanging as the sea, but if you can still remember, stop and think of me." She took in a breath and felt her ribs strain against the rigid, pinching corset. "Think of all the things we've shared and seen…don't think about the way things might have been."

She let her eyes fall to the shimmering skirt of her gown as premonition tainted the last notes. _What if the words of my song prove true? I wouldn't be able to bear it if singing took me away from Meg and Madame Giry._ _He won't allow that to happen, though, will he? He has always only protected me-just like Father did. _

She shoved her qualms aside and raised her head. "Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned…" Her soft voice strengthened as she continued. "…imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind."

"Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you!" She let the final notes take flight, hoping he could hear what he had accomplished. She might have always had her voice within her, but he had the key to its cage, and it was he, not Christine, that released it from its prison.

Still lost in her world of music and thoughts, Christine gave a start when the audience rose to its feet. The applause and bravos were almost deafening. _To have this warm of a reception mid-aria is unheard of!_ Christine wiggled her toes in excitement and shock, relieved they were covered by the dress.

In so many ways, she still felt the simple ballet girl, content to dance in the background. To have all attention centered on her was an entirely new experience, and one that she wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable with.

The applause continued, and she abruptly remembered what protocol demanded. As gracefully as possible, she sank into a curtsy, darting a quick look off-stage. Meg's eyes shone brightly with admiration and encouragement from where she stood in the shadows. Madame Giry, though, was nowhere to be found. A trace of doubt passed through Christine and settled in the back of her mind.

The crowd finally seated itself once more, allowing Christine to finish her aria. She was still troubled by Madame Giry's absence, but she managed to begin singing once again and the music soon took over.

"Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons, so do we. But please promise me that sometimes you will think…" She let the notes trail off in preparation for what she was about to do. She only prayed she could pull it off.

She drew a deep breath and allowed the notes to skip off her tongue in a seemingly random order. One key higher and she repeated the pattern. Then she let the notes descend, tripping over each other in a graceful way. She sang one final low note, and then let it jump an octave, holding it long and full. Finally she floated down, singing the last words with all the power she could muster. "Of me!"

_Cadenza._ Even the word sounded like the music exercise, all up and downs. She couldn't count how many times she had sung the scales during her music lessons. He was relentless, demanding accuracy each and every time. Now, she longed to thank him for drilling that standard so intensely into her. She had never sung such a flawless cadenza.

Apparently, the audience was pleased, too, and rose to its feet in a vociferous ovation. Above the whistles and clapping, she head one of the managers, and raised her eyes in the direction of their box. "Brava! Magnifica! Stupenda!" Andre roared ostentatiously over the crowd.

Slightly embarrassed for the short little man, she flicked her eyes toward Meg as she again made a deep curtsy. Meg's blue eyes sparkled while she clapped her hands ecstatically and grinned. Christine sent her a smile of her own, and then looked to Monsieur Reyer in the orchestra pit.

He met her eye and whispered one word. "Brava."

Christine flushed with pleasure at his compliment even as the audience threw roses and favors at her feet. His praises were few and far between, his taste in music exquisite and fastidious. The audience was easily wooed with loud music, and Meg was loyal to a fault-incapable of anything less than total approbation for Christine. Reyer, though, was blunt; perhaps even more so than Madame Giry, and thus, his opinion carried much weight with Christine. She tucked his praise neatly away in her memory.

She had made it through the performance. Now she only had one desire-to find solace. As soon as she was able, she exited off the stage and made a quick escape to the chapel.


	6. Instinct and Intuition

Instinct and Intuition

Instinct is a funny, capricious creature. He taunts and teases and nudges us into following him on scores of mad capers, most often to the detriment of our hearts. Despite his unconventional-and sometimes disturbing-abilities to lead us down nonstandard paths, he is not a beast to be ignored.

Madame Giry knew this all too well, and loathe as she was to abandon Christine during the aria, the niggling feeling wouldn't leave her. Thus, it was Instinct himself who she followed as she made her way up to the private boxes; Box Five, to be exact. Just as she reached for the door handle, she heard the audience break into thunderous applause.

A small voice was scarcely audible above the clapping. "Can it be? Can it be Christine?" The speaker murmured the words to himself, but Madame Giry heard every syllable.

_Whoever is in Box Five, he is not the Opera Ghost,_ she thought to herself with edgy comprehension and withdrew into the shadows.

A shout of "bravo" came from the box. A few short seconds later, the door swung open, and the Vicomte de Changy strode past where Madame Giry stood hidden. She fell into silent step behind him, anxious to see what the boy was up to.

The memory of his snub of Christine earlier was still fresh in her mind, and childhood sweetheart or no, Madame Giry didn't trust him. After all, it had taken Christine gaining the spotlight before he even deigned to recognize her. If he didn't see her when she was a ballet rat, then how could he know her as a person?

Madame Giry, despite her agility, still had to almost run to keep up with de Changy. His long, energetic strides led them rapidly through the various hallways and staircases that led to the foyer.

"Long ago, it seems so long ago, how young and innocent we were! She may not remember me, but I remember her." Though it possessed vivacity that only youth could lay claim to, Raoul's song troubled her.

Madame Giry paused behind a golden bust of a woman that served as a candelabrum in the reception area. Instinct, it seemed, had a twin brother, and his name was Intuition. He had planted himself quite permanently in Madame Giry's mind since she was a young girl, and along with Instinct, ruled over her thoughts and decisions. Right now, he was telling her that something far-reaching had been set in motion, and she didn't have enough power to prevent it.

The same misgivings she had experienced that morning doubled in weight and settled heavily on her shoulders.


	7. Catering to a Diva

Catering to a Diva

Oh, how she detested her job! It was awful having to cater to that simpering, overdramatic Diva, but what else was she to do? The good Lord knew she had bills to pay, what with the French economy in its current unsettled state. Still, it was times like these that made her wish to have a situation somewhere, anywhere else.

As the applause for Christine Daaé rose to a deafening roar, the maid took another swig of the stiff whiskey from her flask and bustled out of the theatre. This was not the news she had hoped to deliver. Why, the mistress would be in a snit for weeks!

The blast of fall air blew across her liquor-flushed cheeks, cooling them pleasantly as she trotted down the steps out of the theatre.

She mentally rehearsed what she would say when she reached the coach that held La Carlotta and Piangi. Christine had been astounding-even a lowly maid such as herself could tell that. However, she couldn't just out-and-out say such a thing to La Carlotta.

She tried desperately to string a few words together that would convey the truth as gently as possible, but it was hopeless. Anything short of the truth would infuriate her mistress.

The maid drew a deep breath and leaned into the carriage.

As it turned out, she was spared giving the news. The Diva took one glance at the look on her maid's face, bit a leather-clad knuckle, rolled her eyes back in her head, and fell against Piangi in a dead faint.

_Well_, the maid thought, that_ went well. _


	8. Angel of Music

_A/N Hey, everyone, sorry this took so long…hopefully now that my crit mate is back in action I'll get these up quicker. Eh, maybe not. Ah, well. Enjoy!_

Already people milled about backstage, and Meg struggled to get past them. She hopped up every now and then in hopes of catching a glimpse of Christine.

_Where could she have disappeared to so quickly?_ she thought, her frustration mounting. Inspiration struck, and she wove an intertwining path through the throngs of people. She glanced back and saw that Raoul followed her. She fought back the blush that threatened to creep up her neck and soon lost him, her litheness defeating his polite navigation of the crowds.

The people thinned out as Meg trekked toward the recesses of the theatre. Once, she passed a couple kissing passionately in a darkened corridor, and she hurried by without a backward glance, discomfited to come upon their tryst.

Her embarrassment faded as she neared her destination, her thoughts turning toward Christine. Over the past months, Meg sensed that her friend harbored a secret, but whenever Meg pressed Christine to talk about it, she would merely shake her head and change the subject. It saddened Meg to think that Christine would keep something from her-they had always told each other everything, even silly notions and feelings. Meg sensed, though, that this secret wasn't silly in the slightest, and she longed for her friend to confide in her.

She trailed a fingertip along the cold brick wall and turned the corner leading to the chapel. "Christine, Christine," she called softly, her sweet voice floating down the corridor.

She could have sworn she heard a deeper, softer echo of her voice, but was quickly distracted from the impression when she saw a glimmer of light come from the chapel and dance in its doorway.

She smiled as she stepped inside and saw Christine kneeling on the floor, still in her stunning gala costume. She had lit a candle for her father on the altar, its flame catching the sparkling crystals in her hair and ears.

Meg gracefully hastened to her friend's side, singing softly. "Where in the world have you been hiding? Really, you were perfect." Christine raised her head and smiled as Meg settled herself next to her. "I only wish I knew your secret. Who is your great tutor?"

Christine's smile deepened as she met Meg's eye, and Meg's heart thumped in her chest. She recognized the look she saw on Christine's face. Finally, the wall of secrecy that divided them would be torn down. _I just want to understand, Christine. Give me the chance to understand._ Meg's thought came out as half of a prayer.

Drawing in a deep breath, Christine began. "Meg, when your mother brought me here to live…whenever I came down here alone, to light a candle for my father-a voice, from above and in my dreams. He was always there. You see, when my father lay dying, he told me I would be protected by an angel- an Angel of Music."

Meg dimly recalled the day that Christine had arrived at the theatre-it had been the first time she had met Christine. They had both been so young, but even then Meg knew Christine needed a friend. She could still picture how frail Christine had looked, clinging to the hand of Meg's mother so tightly that her knuckles were white.

One night, a few weeks after Christine had moved in with the Girys, she had told Meg about the night her father died. He had finally succumbed to the illness that had robbed him of his vitality, leaving a mere shell of a man. Meg's mother had been there that night, and comforted Christine even as her father slipped away from this life. Meg knew that Christine still grieved heavily for her father, though it had been nine years since his death.

Meg's forehead wrinkled in concern as she struggled to take in all that Christine had just confessed to her. "Christine, do you believe-do you think the spirit of your father is coaching you?"

A firm conviction crossed Christine's features. "Who else, Meg? Who?" she whispered. She looked over the candles, the flames flickering slightly. "Father once spoke of an angel. I used to dream he'd appear." Her voice was relaxed and sure, the notes sliding off her tongue like honey off an oil coated spoon. "Now as I sing, I can sense him, and I know he's here."

Meg sprung up next to Christine as she gathered her billowing skirts and rose. "Here in this room, he calls me softly, somewhere inside, hiding. Somehow I know he's always with me, he the unseen genius."

Even before Christine sung the last word, Meg shook her head and took her hand, half-leading, half-pulling her away from the altar and out of the chapel. Perhaps it was because she hadn't seen this Angel of Music, but no matter how hard she tried, Meg couldn't wrap her mind around the idea. "Christine, you must have been dreaming-stories like this can't come true. Christine, you're talking in riddles, and it's not like you."

They glided out of the musty hallway and onto the gleaming stage, Christine's voice growing stronger, as though the feel of the wood beneath her feet fortified her words. "Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory..."

Meg let her voice rise in harmony to join Christine's. A tickling qualm still lurked in the back of her mind, but an irresistible curiosity grew within her. "Who is this Angel? Angel of Music, hide no longer, come to me, strange Angel."

A chill passed over Meg, the feeling entirely different from the ones she had experienced in the chapel. It seemed Christine sensed the mood change, too, and they paused in the middle of the stage. Meg's apprehension increased and she felt as though she were listening to a ghost story and was too afraid to hear the ending.

Christine glanced around her at the lush velvet curtains and the thin backdrops, seeming to sense something. "He's with me even now…"

"…Your hands are cold," Meg sang, almost to herself, feeling Christine's icy fingers against her own warm palm.

"All around me.." Christine glanced up sharply.

"Your face, Christine, it's white!" Meg sang, with a sharp note of alarm, taking Christine's chin in her hand.

The tremor of fear had finally reached Christine's voice. "It frightens me..."

"Don't be frightened…" Meg's notes slowly trailed off.

Despite her reassurances, Meg herself was startled, especially to see her friend in such a state. She quickly led Christine toward her dressing room, hoping that her friend would find it a bulwark against what haunted her.


	9. Gift from an Angel

Gift from an Angel

The theatre was an odd mix of full and empty. The auditorium was vacant and silent as a winter morning; but backstage hummed like cicadas during an August day. Madame Giry pushed through the horde of people, muttering several foul oaths beneath her breath.

"Maman!"

Madame Giry recognized the high voice instantly and rose on her toes to see over the mass of humanity, glimpsing Meg and Christine only a few yards away. Getting to them seemed to take an eternity, but eventually, she reached the two girls and immediately began herding them toward the dressing room Christine had used before the show.

They had almost reached their destination when Meg suddenly grabbed her mother's arm and gestured to several men of various ages, all holding flowers. "If you want to avoid being pestered by Christine's new beaus, Maman, then you and Christine must hurry. I'll hold them off."

Madame Giry hesitated only a moment before nodding and sending a meaningful glance at Meg. Christine had remained silent, and the ballet mistress sensed that the newly debuted singer needed some quiet solitude to organize her thoughts.

With renewed determination, Madame Giry shoved her way through the crowd. She and Christine entered the dressing room in a whoosh. Somehow, a few admirers had gotten past Meg, and tried to follow them in. Madame Giry growled in a most unladylike way. "Non!" she said fiercely, and shut the door with as much control as she could muster, which was, in fact, very little.

Still breathing heavily from the whole ordeal, she smoothed her skirts and started to turn to Christine. Something, though, drew her gaze to the table by the door.

There, on the little stand, lay a single red rose. A glossy silk ribbon, black as the night itself, was tied around the rose's thornless stem. Its simplicity was welcome amongst the grandiose flower arrangements admirers had had delivered. In one swift movement, Madame Giry collected the rose from the stand. She held it tenderly, almost reverently, knowing exactly who it was from and what it meant.

She approached Christine and held out the rose. "You did very well, my dear," she said, pride making her voice husky. "He is pleased with you."

Christine hesitantly took the rose, but before she could ask any questions, Madame Giry swept up her heavy skirts and left the girl fingering the black ribbon.


	10. Diversion

Diversion

Firmin stood backstage, Andre beside him. Firmin was at his best, unperturbed and content in the press of people. A ballet girl with ginger colored hair stood beside him, flirting outrageously, and he offered to let her take a draw from his cigar.

It would seem that he had already acquired a handsome diversion, even though this was only his first night as a manager. The opera house was shaping up to be the best move of his career. The dancer might be a little beneath his station, but she was merely a pretty wrung in his ladder of success.

He replaced his cigar in his mouth, grinning all the while. Things were going swimmingly for him in all accounts-except one. He held a bouquet awkwardly in his arms, a weighty reminder that he had been refused when he attempted to deliver the flowers to his new leading lady. Normally, he would take great offense at this none-too-subtle snub, but he felt amiable tonight. Still, he would see this Christine Daaé, one way or another.

He let his attention wander to the crowd and studied the faces around him. Suddenly, he spotted someone he recognized. Before his prey could move out of hearing range, Firmin let out a shout.

"Ah, Vicomte, Vicomte!"

The call drew both Andre's and Raoul de Changy's attention. Andre quickly located the Vicomte, and he beckoned to him. The young noble met Firmin's eye and resignedly made his way toward the managers.

"I think we've made quite a discovery with Miss Daaé…" Firmin boasted as the Vicomte drew near.

"Perhaps we could present her to you, dear Vicomte," Andre suggested, nudging and winking at Firmin.

Raoul looked more that slightly dubious. "Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind, this is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied." He noticed the bouquet that Firmin still held and neatly plucked it from the manager's arms.

"Thank you," he said, with a bob of his head, and he took the few steps toward Christine's dressing room.

Firmin wasn't sure if he should be offended or honored that the Vicomte out-and-out stole his flowers-especially without allowing himself to come along to Miss Daaé's room. Then, feeling the weight of coins in his coin purse, he decided he could afford to buy a hundred bouquets, if he so wished. What were a few flowers to a businessman of his supreme talents?

Good natured once again, Firmin planted his tongue in his cheek. "It would appear they've met before…" he remarked to his partner.

"Yes," Andre agreed, and then both men smiled and turned their attention back to the women flocking about them.


	11. Little Lotte

Little Lotte

Christine sat at the vanity, thoughts leaving her mind as soon as they entered it. She feared that if she convinced them to stay, her head would become too crowded and she would go mad. So instead, she let them come and go as they pleased, while she gently stroked the ribbon tied to the rose from her Angel. She occasionally raised the flower to her nose, breathing in the glorious scent. The blossom was perfectly formed, its shape balanced and its color bold. Still, no matter the perfection of the rose in her hands, her gaze and fingers always traveled back to the simple black ribbon tied with such care around the green stem.

_He is pleased with you_… She let Madame Giry's words trickle into her mind. The thought that she might have pleased her master sent a thrill that raced through her and coiled warmly in her center.

Imagine, being taught by an angel, then pleasing that angel! Christine couldn't fathom it, thought she tried earnestly. A memory came to her, something she had heard once from one of the members of the ballet corps months ago. A single rose, the dancer had whispered one night, was the sign of a secret tryst between the giver and receiver. An Angel, though, could never fall in love with a corporeal being like her, could he?

Her concentration was broken when the door opened and the noise from the hall spilled into the quiet room. Her hand stilled, the silk ribbon still entwined in her fingers.

"Little Lotte let her mind wander…"

The voice, a man's, was pleasant, and intensely familiar. Christine froze in shock. It couldn't be, could it?

"Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or goblins or shoes?'"

"Raoul!" she exclaimed, and turned in her chair to face him.

Raoul smiled at her and continued the poem as he placed a bouquet of flowers on an arbitrary table. "'Or of riddles or frocks?'"

Christine, too, smiled, remembering the days of precious, innocent youth gone by. "Those picnics in the attic," she trailed off, recalling the treasured memories.

"'Or of chocolates?'" he finished, raising an eyebrow.

"Father playing the violin…" she said wistfully.

Raoul knelt before her, meeting her eye. "As we read to each other dark stories of the North," he added.

"No," Christine whispered. "'What I love best,' Lotte said, 'is when I'm asleep in my bed…'" Christine let her word trail into song, Raoul softly echoing her. "And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head; the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."

The moment enveloped them for an instant, and then Raoul leaned in and embraced Christine tenderly.

"You sang like an Angel tonight," he said, his warm breath whispering in her hair.

She let her eyes flutter closed for an instant. She had always felt safe in his arms, even when they were children. Reluctantly, she pulled away, intent to share with him what she had told Meg earlier.

She caught his gaze and looked straight into his deep brown eyes. "Father said, 'When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' Well, Father is dead, Raoul, and I have been visited by an angel…the Angel of Music!" She couldn't help but let the excitement prance into her voice.

"Oh, no doubt of it," Raoul said, nodding his head firmly. "And now, we go to supper." He rose and started for the door.

"No, Raoul-the Angel of Music is very strict!" There was a slight glint of panic in her tone, but Raoul seemed not to notice it, though he did halt his steps.

"Well, then, I shan't keep you up late!" He chuckled at the joke, but Christine's panic turned to dread.

"No, Raoul…"

"You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte." He was out of the room and shutting the door behind him before she could rise from her seat at the vanity.

"Raoul! No, wait!" she called, but her efforts were futile-he had already gone.

She bit her bottom lip to keep the tears from trickling down. She had tried so hard to help him see just what the Angel of Music meant to her, but Raoul didn't understand. Perhaps it was her fault; maybe she hadn't explained herself well enough, and he thought she was still playing games of make-believe. She hadn't been, though, and still wasn't. Her Angel was real-she knew it.

She built a dam within herself to keep the flood of emotions at bay. This had been quite possibly the longest day of her life, and she felt enervated, as though she had already aged a dozen lifetimes. Some part of her wanted to go to dinner with Raoul, but she knew she wouldn't be very good company-she felt too weary and empty. She didn't have anything more to give anyone tonight.

Raoul would just have to understand.


	12. The Angel of Music at the Mirror

Angel of Music, Revised

Christine stepped out from behind the privacy screen, tying the ribbon on the front of her dressing gown. Her thoughts were seeped in turmoil over the conversation with Raoul. A draft propelled itself into the room, and she looked up to see a curl of smoke whispering up from a candle's wick. The room fell into an unremitting darkness immediately. Presentiment raced through her, and she stepped toward the door. Just as she reached for the handle, a note, struck from somewhere deep within the opera house, rumbled and made her sternum quiver. She turned away from the door, her movements jagged with trepidation.

Fear paralyzed both her thoughts and body for a heartbeat in time. Thoughts of assailants in the dark left her when she heard her Angel's voice, the voice that had been her companion for so many years, and her apprehension disbanded.

"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph." His song, though harsh and mocking, was also undeniably persuasive.

A tremor went through her, though she did her best to still it. She had never heard such anger in his voice before. "Angel I hear you, speak, I listen. Stay by my side, guide me." Supplication entwined itself through her song. She dipped her head when the next words came to her. Shame tingled through her to have to sing them, but she knew they were important…that he was important. "Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me. Enter at last, master."

As she sang, Christine looked about the room, searching for any sign of her Angel. There were no shadows, no quick movements, nothing. A millstone bound itself around her neck for a moment as she recalled Meg's earlier words of Christine's Angel simply being a dream. It was late, but suddenly she felt no fatigue. This, his voice, was no apparition; it was completely and irrefutably real.

"Flattering child, you shall know me," he sang again, his tone more gentle and appealing. "See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror, I am there inside!"

Excitement and disbelief rushed through her. Was she really to see her Angel? What would be the cost of a glimpse of such a celestial being? Charily, she raised her eyes to the full-length mirror that hung on the far wall.

The room around her faded into oblivion, and all she saw was him. A well-dressed gentleman, tall and lean, stood, somehow, within the glass of the mirror. The looking glass's gold casing framed him, as though he were a masterpiece in an art gallery. A white mask covered the right side of his face, from hairline to lower cheek. Though unexpected, the mask's stark beauty was breathtaking.

The song came to her naturally, the notes nearly singing themselves. "Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory." She felt a certain force pull her toward the mirror. She crossed the room, her mind devoid of doubts or questions. "Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, strange Angel."

She found herself directly in front of the mirror, sheer inches away from the vision she had dreamed about on so many occasions. She paused as he began calling to her in a deep, hypnotizing voice.

"I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music."

His voice was unlike anything she had ever heard. Its silky, undeniably seductive tone coated her and surrounded her, until it was all she could absorb. Through a thick fog, Christine dimly thought she heard Raoul's voice. Her Angel repeated his call, and all thoughts of the Vicomte disappeared. "I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music."

He stretched out a gloved hand toward Christine, as if daring, asking, begging her to bridge the gap between them. Wanting the same, she reached out her hand, her fingertips hovering just over his. For an instant, she hesitated. Then, for an eternity, her hand was his.


	13. The Phantom of the Opera

Phantom of the Opera

The instant Christine's fingertips touched his buttery soft leather glove, her Angel began pulling her toward him, as undeniable as the ocean's current. She felt as if she were in a dream; bright lights blinded her to all else but him, so that she could hardly feel her feet beneath her. All Christine felt was him; the warmth of his hand through his glove, and the steady, encouraging tugs of him leading her.

She blinked once, and quite suddenly she was no longer in her dressing room but in a glowing stone corridor, lit by brilliant candelabras. Still holding her hand, he turned his head slightly to look back at her. The motion sent Christine's heart dropping to her toes. He was _stunning_. His masked profile held her in a smoldering gaze, the piercing eye seeming to look into her very soul. His long black cape only accentuated his already graceful movements as he guided her farther down the passageway.

"In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came..." Christine didn't even realize at first the words had left her mind until her Angel's grip tightened on her hand. Emboldened by his touch, she continued to let the notes flow. "That voice which calls to me, and speaks my name." As he drew her down the staircase, she let the notes sail higher. "And do I dream again, for now I find-the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind."

As soon as the last phrase left her mouth, reality sunk in and the truth she had always known but never acknowledged was now committed to spoken words. Her Angel of Music was the Phantom of the Opera. This man was the ghost that Madame Giry had always warned the other girls about, the one that threatened managers, the one that played cruel tricks on Carlotta.

Her Angel and the Phantom were one man. Christine let the words settle into her mind. A small something inside of her cracked, like a piece of fine bone china. Distrust filled that fissure and widened it a bit more. For a moment, she entertained the notion of freeing her hand from his grasp and fleeing. She didn't have a chance to consider the idea further. Never relaxing his grip on her, he lifted her onto a large black horse, making sure she was settled before letting go of her and taking up the horse's reins. Feeling the strong animal beneath her gave Christine a measure of calm, and she braced herself with her hands against the horse's neck.

As though he could sense her thoughts, the Phantom began singing, his voice rich and low. "Sing once again with me, our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet." He led the horse down a few more short steps and through a vaulted archway. In the distance, water from an underground river glinted in the weak light cast from torches.

"And though you turn from me, to glance behind, the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind." A splash of guilt slapped Christine in the face. He knew exactly what she had thought earlier. He stopped the horse and gently lifted her to the ground and into a small boat, resting atop the water. He saw to it that she was seated comfortably, and then carefully stepped into the boat himself.

She swallowed her treacherous thoughts. He had done absolutely nothing to hurt her, not tonight, or through the years of music lessons. No, he was much too kind of a man, much too gentle to hurt anyone. There had to be some mistake. Meg always said that Christine's thoughts often danced off with her, and tonight was no different. He pushed off with a long pole, and Christine sang again.

"Those who have seen your face, draw back in fear. I am the mask you wear-" He picked up the next line, as he always had in their music lessons. "It's me they hear." Then their voices intertwined intimately. "Your spirit and my voice, in one combined. The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind."

"He's there, the Phantom of Opera."Christine mostly sang the words to herself, releasing the last doubtful thought from her mind.

_That's all there is-the Phantom is completely inside my mind. I've made my Angel into something he's not. My father would not have sent a Phantom in the place of an Angel._ Christine released the breath pent up inside of her since the moment she had first wrongly called her Angel the Phantom. Then, from the depths of her soul, she began singing, letting the notes dictate where her song went.

"Sing, my Angel of Music," her Angel coaxed. Christine let the song go a little higher, reveling in the power behind it.

"Sing, my angel," he whispered, his voice smoky. She made a key change and the song lifted higher. "Sing for me," he said louder, over her sailing notes. Christine took another deep breath and changed keys again. As if lost in her voice, he droned drowsily, "Sing…" She sang even higher. "Sing, my Angel," he demanded. "Sing for me!" Christine hit the top note in her range, the sound echoing like a bell in the cavern that she found they had entered. How they arrived there, Christine didn't know; she had never been so absorbed in her music before, not even at the gala just a few hours ago.

Black curtains swept back as if by some unseen hand, and a massive, iron grate rose out of the water, dripping as it made its ascent. A cave lay beyond, its walls of limestone shot with veins of crimson and indigo. It was illuminated by hundreds of candles, their flames casting flickering shadows upon musical scores and sketches scattered across the floor. More candelabras rose out of the water itself, the candles' flames springing to life even as water streamed off of their holders. A magnificent pipe organ lined one wall, its golden cylinders stretching toward the ceiling. Other instruments lay casually on the floor, as though set there only for a moment while their player went elsewhere to pursue a different art. Christine's chest heaved as she struggled to regain her breath that was unexpectedly absent.

Her Angel stepped off the gondola and onto the floor of his lair, resting his pole against the wall. He pulled his cloak off of his shoulders and around his back, letting it settle itself on the floor with a swirl. He stretched his arms out and looked back at Christine, gesturing at the room behind him.

"I have brought you to the seat of sweet music's throne..." His voice seemed absent, almost eerie in its emptiness. He stepped toward the organ, studying its keys and intricate pipes.

"To this kingdom where all must pay homage to music…music." His back was toward Christine, and she felt the barrier, as cold and empty as the song he was singing. His voice sharpened with a slight edge, a small sliver of pain and fear.

"You have come here, for one purpose and one alone..." He slowly turned toward her again, and she looked at him, eager to make eye contact. "Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve me to sing for my music…my music."

Christine mentally reeled with surprise. _He needed her?_ She was the one who was sad and heartbroken over the death of her father. How was it that she could ever improve his music, which was already perfect on its own? Still, the idea of helping him touched her, and she smiled a bit at him, though her eyes were still wide with astonishment.

He finally allowed himself to meet her gaze, and felt a niggling of guilt when he saw the shock on her face. He stepped toward where she was settled in the boat and began singing a completely different song. His earlier tune had been for himself; this one would be for her.


	14. Music of the Night

Music of the Night

He was intimately familiar with the tune; it seemed it had always been with him. When he was a boy, he used to cling to it in the cold, dark nights when tears threatened to spill. As he grew into a man, he had allowed the song to melt and pool in the quiet parts of his mind, so that no matter what he did, the notes would wisp through his being and comfort him. Now he brought every note into sweet clarity.

The words were not as familiar, though; they came to him shyly, as the lyrics were still fresh and new. Indeed, they had only come to him just a few hours ago, as he stood directly beneath the Opera Populaire's stage and listened to her stun them with her rendition of the aria from Hannibal. Now, Christine Daaé would be the first to hear both the tune and words together in a glorious song.

Little by little, he stepped away from the organ, opened his mouth, and began singing the song from the depths of his soul. "Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination."

"Silently, the senses abandon their defenses." He reached a hand toward Christine and gently pulled her to her feet. Then he guided her off the boat and onto the stone floor. He took a few steps backward, never letting his gaze stray from her lovely face.

Before he lost confidence, he went on. "Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender." He curled his gloved fingers around the air in a beckoning motion, striving for her to utter acceptance and trust, but she turned her head to glance across the water.

_No, Christine, no. Please, don't do this to me_. He smashed the hurt down instinctively and kept singing, pulling her chin back toward him. "Turn your face away, from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light..."

He glanced down, letting his eyes fall upon the panorama he had made of the gala. When Christine followed his gaze, he pulled her past the mini-stage, embarrassed that she should see the sketch he had made of her after their last music lesson. It looked nothing like her, making only a caricature of her beauty. He jerked his attention back to his song. She must not sense any other weakness in him. His face was enough. "...and listen to the music of the night."

His feelings were too fast and too new, and yet he had so much to tell her, to convince her of. He released her hand and retreated to the sanctuary that his pipe organ offered. The peace that he always found when he played the instrument encircled him.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams." He whirled around to face her, passion coloring his voice. "Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before."

Swallowing the intensity he felt and gentling his voice, he took a step toward Christine. "Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar."

A thrill shuddered through him and lifted the corners of his mouth when he saw Christine's eyelids flutter closed for a moment. He could give her a thousand of those moments, if only she would let him.

Emotion made his voice shake as he reached a hand toward the graceful woman before him. "And you'll live as you've never lived before."

He drew her up the steps, her foot falls landing on each word. "Softly, deftly, music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you." He lowered his forehead to Christine's, half-temped to brush his lips against hers. The memory of his only attempt to kiss his mother flashed across his mind, leaving painful echoes, and he pulled away.

He turned a small circle around her, locking his gaze onto hers. "Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness that you know you cannot fight…" He looked away, across the expanse of the water surrounding his lair. "…the darkness of the music of the night."

He stepped away from her and behind a row of candles that sputtered in the damp air. His heart gave a little leap to see that her eyes followed him, overflowing with desire. He let his voice grow bold, even arrogantly so.

"Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be!" His voice echoed off the walls magnificently.

Following an impulse he didn't quite understand, he drew close to Christine once more, running his hands along her perfect, smooth jaw. There were her lips again, as undeniable as summer's first fruits, but this time, he was ready for the temptation, and stopped himself from capturing her mouth with his. "Only then, can you belong to me."

He drew her close to him, and pressed her back up against his chest. He loved the feel of her in his arms. With her this close, he almost felt like the man she needed him to be.

"Floating, falling, sweet intoxication." He ran a gloved hand along her corset, the leather sliding along the fabric as willingly as the song from his mouth. Her soft curls brushed up against his mask as he raised her hand to his other cheek, this one uncovered and unmarred.

"Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation." It was almost more than he could bear to have her palm against his face. Her flesh did more than warm his skin; it set a fire deep within his soul, with a beautiful force that both plundered and restored. Only able to withstand her bare touch for so long, he curled her fingers over his and began leading her down another set of steps. An idea touched his mind even as he continued to sing.

"Let the dream begin…" He glanced behind to stare her right in the eye and watch his words sink into her. It seemed they did, like a hot knife into butter. "Let your darker side give in, to the power of the music that I write…" he let his voice grow broad and deep. "…the power of the music of the night."

As they passed a music stand covered in disorganized score, he passed her hand to his other, and again allowed himself to indulge in drinking in her beauty. Her skin was creamy, her eyes wide and thickly lashed. What made her beautiful, though, were her smile and her look of adoration as she lifted her face toward him.

Before he could stop himself, he pushed back the curtain that hid his latest creation. He had designed it himself, laboring over the sketches until the drawing was perfect. He had given it to Madame Giry to see that it made it to the proper place, and a few weeks later, she had delivered it to him.

His creation, a stunning white dress, shimmered and flowed in all the right places. He had immediately hung it on the mannequin in the small recess in the cavern's wall, afraid to wrinkle the exquisite material. Now he showed it to Christine, directing her with his eyes to look at it.

Almost immediately he realized his mistake. He felt her jerk, and then she collapsed in a dead faint so fast he barely had time to catch her. He cradled her light form close to his chest, her cheek resting lightly on his bicep.

He had pushed her too hard. He had begged for her to accept him, and it was too much. Why he thought he could convince her in one night, he didn't know. As overwhelmed with emotion and confusion as the woman in his arms, he carried her over to his bed.

As he lay her down on the crimson velvet coverlet, he couldn't resist stroking her smooth cheek one more time. "You alone can make my song take flight." The words were more a prayer than a song.

He straightened, his gaze still locked on her face. He briefly glanced up to find the pull cord to lower the privacy curtain, and then let his eyes travel back to Christine. "Help me make the music of the night." He held the note high and strong as the curtain descended, leaving a thin but still manageable barrier between his lady and himself.


	15. Through Unveiled Eyes

Through Unveiled Eyes

Meg felt a little shiver trickle down her spine like a cold drop of rain. "I've been through these halls and rooms hundreds of times," she whispered to herself, but the sound of her whisper was lost in the vast theatre. It never failed-walking through the Opera Populaire in the dark spooked her to the core. She was unable to squelch the tales of the Opera Ghost that flitted through her mind, and every shadow became a wraith, an unseen abductor.

Clenching her jaw, she stretched a hand out and cautiously unlocked the door to Christine's dressing room with the key her mother had given her. She cracked the door open and peered inside, willing her heart palpitations to cease. _Oh, why couldn't Maman have come herself?_ She buried the thought and forced herself to enter the room.

An overwhelming floral scent from looming shadows of bouquets assailed her immediately. The rug on the floor felt plush beneath her slippers, but a slight draft crept in and twined itself between Meg's ankles like a lonely alley cat.

"Christine?" Meg's whisper shattered the thick silence, and she winced at its loudness.

Treading cautiously, she set the key on a table, glancing behind her. No one was in the room, but she sensed another presence nonetheless. "Christine?"

_Bête!_ _The sooner you find Christine, the sooner you can leave!_ Grasping at the scraps that were the remains of her courage, she moved toward the dressing table.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and she jolted, ready to flee. She almost laughed when she realized she had only seen herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the far wall, but her mirth quickly vanished. There, on the left side of the mirror, was a barely discernable gap.

Warily Meg approached the looking glass, absently noting that the draft she had felt earlier must have come from the cold air flowing through the gap. She hesitated to steady her jangled nerves, and then put a hand on the mirror. It gave way immediately to her slight pressure and slid to the side on some sort of track to reveal a dark, musty hallway.

She stepped across the threshold, curiosity overtaking her fear. When she looked at the mirror that she had just pushed aside, her view was as if she was looking through a window; she could see the dressing room that she had just left, with its tables and flowers and lavish décor.

She stepped away from the mirror, into the harsh contrast of the stony hallway. The temperature difference was immediately apparent. The corridor felt clammy, like a wool cloak that had never completely dried after a rainstorm. Cobwebs clung to the stone walls, and water formed puddles with sinister dripping.

Meg felt something scurry over her foot and shrieked when she saw a thick-tailed sewer rat, along with a few companions, quickly retreat into the darkness. Meg felt like abandoning her search and doing the same. Surely Christine wouldn't be down here!

_But what if she is? Something is here, and I must find out what._ _Maman wouldn't be frightened._ Meg straightened her shoulders and set a determined course down the corridor.

Suddenly, a strong hand clamped down on her shoulder, and Meg jerked around to face her assailant, sure that she would see a specter come to lock her away forever.

Instead, she found her mother's stern gaze boring into her. Madame Giry gave Meg a reprimanding look before clasping her daughter's hand firmly and leading her back through the corridor and to the ballet dormitories.


	16. Magical Lasso

Magical Lasso

Meg didn't like the fear and secrecy she sensed in her mother. "Maman, what was that back there? And what of Christine? Was that-"

"Hush, mon mioche! No questions, please." Her mother's brittle tone was one Meg had never heard before.

"But Maman," she started.

"Non, non, not now." Her mother's voice came quieter. Meg wasn't sure if the words were spoken to her, and fell silent the rest of the way to the rooms.

"Bigre! I left the key in the dressing room, Maman," Meg exclaimed just as they mounted the staircase to the dormitories. She turned to retrace her steps, but her mother stopped her.

"Never mind. I shall go and retrieve it. To bed with you." Without another word, her mother gathered her skirts and headed back to the dressing room.

The ballet rats were rushing about, preparing for bed, and Meg was able to enter the room unnoticed. Wariness and discomfort pricked at Meg when she saw that Joseph Buquet stood in the room, flirting and bantering with the other girls in the ballet corps.

He feinted and lunged, extracting shrieks of horror and delight from the dancers. They enjoyed this dangerous game, their protests only a façade of propriety. Meg found the entire charade repulsive.

"Like yellow parchment is his skin," Buquet sang mockingly. "A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew…"

Once again, he was bragging about his supposed sighting of the Opera Ghost. Meg had her doubts over whether or not Buquet had indeed seen the Phantom of the Opera, but the other girls always took a perverse pleasure in the stagehand's tale, as did Buquet himself. Meg hurried to her bed in the corner and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore Buquet.

He pulled out a length of rope that he had fashioned into a noose. "You must be always on your guard," he commanded, pointed a stubby, dirty finger. "Or he will catch you, with his magical lasso."

He looped the rope around one of the dancer's shoulders and drew her close. He then pretended to ravish the girl, but Maman appeared from nowhere. She stepped between them, releasing the girl from Buquet's clutches.

She took the rope and fingered it thoughtfully. "Those who speak of what they know find too late that prudent silence is wise…"

Maman looked around the room, studying its occupants. For a moment, Meg saw her mother's gaze land on her, and sensed the silent apology for the unspoken words between them.

Maman turned to Buquet, anger entering her voice. "Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue…" she let her open palm fly across his face in a loud slap. In a quick move, she slipped the noose over his head and tightened it snuggly on his throat.

"Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!" she cried.


	17. I Remember

Christine had been dreaming; she knew that much to be true. Yet when she woke, it was as though she was dreaming still.

Music, like the tinkling of water over glass, floated toward her, and she let her eyes flutter open to search for the origin of the sound. Her gaze immediately fell upon a curious object.

A figure of a monkey, with calm eyes the color of coffee, seemed almost to be smiling from where he was perched atop a box. He held a shining cymbal in each hand, and tapped them together in time to the music that came from the box beneath him. He was dressed in the fashion of the Orient, in silken robes of rich colors and patterns. A turban swathed his head, a jeweled and feathered brooch in the center of the headdress.

Christine, her eyes locked on the music box, reached instinctively for the tassel next to the bed and tugged it gently. The dark lace curtain that surrounded her slowly rose even as the music box wound down, the tune fading into silence. A dizzying sensation of curiosity washed over her, but like a March snowfall, the feeling melted away without a trace.

The covers on the bed she lay on were lush and inviting, but held no power over the thoughts that were gamboling through her mind. She swung her feet off the bed and to the floor, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she rose. The stone floor was chilly beneath her bare feet, a welcome shock that helped dissipate the fuzziness in her mind.

She could neither place her surroundings, nor how she had gotten there. Memories, teasing and mocking her in their dimness, slithered to the surface of her mind, and she sang, her words slow, hesitant, distant.

"I remember there was mist, swirling mist across a vast, glassy lake…" She watched the water, ebbing and flowing against the far edge of the grotto in which she stood. _What was it about the water?_

Another memory tickled her as she glanced around the cavern. "There were candles all around and on the lake there was a boat…" Like a door latch sliding home, the memory clicked inside her head. "…and in the boat there was a man."

Her gaze was pulled over to where he lingered silently over his organ. As though he could feel her eyes upon him, he turned slightly, showing her his masked side. The smell of ink permeated the air, and a quill rested in his hand, forgotten for the moment. Something flashed in his eye, and he straightened as she left the bed chamber and crossed to where he sat.

"Who was that shape in the shadows?" she sang, her voice delicate with its questions. "Whose is the face in the mask?"

She approached him, drawn to his form, a tingle starting in her stomach. He wore a heavy black velvet robe that draped across his broad shoulders. His hair was neatly combed back. She drew closer to him, and, unable to stop herself, ran her fingers along the left side of his jaw. His skin was smooth and unblemished. When she spread her palm across his cheek she could feel the strength of the muscle and bone structure that lay beneath their flawless covering.

The tingle in her stomach spread through her entire body when he tipped his head back and pressed into her caress. His shoulders pushed against her in delicate resistance.

She could feel the mask beneath the heel of her left hand, and a notion, foolish and impulsive, seized her. Without further though, she curled her fingers around the edge of the white leather mask and pulled.


	18. Stranger Than You Dreamt It

_Oh, how I love her voice_.

His thoughts were entirely consumed by the sound of it, by the musical shape of it. He let himself float upon her song, basking in every perfect note.

Then, she touched him, and his stomach clenched. Her touch was gentle and loving, not at all what he expected. There was so much unexpected kindness and comfort in her hands.

Her song and her touch wove a canopy of solace about him, one so great that, at first, he didn't even realize what she had done. Then he felt it. Cool air touched his face—the right side of his face. A million voices began screaming in his head, and all were yelling the same word: _No._

By sheer instinct, he slapped his hand hard over his deformity and jerked away from her. She couldn't be allowed to see his face. He forbade it! But it was too late. The mask, by Christine's own hand, was off and lay beyond his reach.

Why? Why did she have to curse herself with this, the sight of his rotting flesh? Why did she have to know what made him more corpse than human?

A knife of betrayal buried itself inside his gut and twisted. The pain was immense, and it spilled out in anger, like a torn wineskin. He lashed out at a candelabrum, knocking it to the ground and extinguishing its flames.

"Damn you! You little prying Pandora!" he roared. "You little demon! This is what you wanted to see?"

He used both hands to wrench a heavy cloth from a full-length mirror and glared at his reflection. For a sliver of time, his face was revealed, but he had no wish to let the details of it sink into his soul, and he covered his right side once more with hand.

He whipped around to Christine, who lay huddled on the stone floor amongst scattered musical score. Her fearful eyes tracked his every move, and icy self-loathing ripped through him. He had knocked her to the floor, and he had put that fear into her. Whatever spell he might have woven around her last night was now torn to shreds with the violent claws of his wrath. There was no going back now.

"Curse you! You little lying Delilah! You little viper! Now you cannot ever be free. Damn you…" Rage and unspent tears choked his voice as he turned and pushed over another candle holder. "Curse you…" The words and his anger tapered off together.

If he thought he possessed a soul, he would have said the very depths of it ached. No demon such as himself, however, could lay claim to a soul, and so he forced his pain to reside in physical locations, like his pounding head and tension-ridden shoulders.

Words, cynical and self-mocking, came out as a song that was mangled by the thickness in his throat. He cradled his face in his palm and walked along the stony edge of the grotto, watching Christine's tears trickle down her face. "Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even dare to look or bear to think of me, this…loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell but secretly yearns for heaven secretly, secretly…Christine…"

He could see the panic in Christine's eyes, could sense dread coming off her in time to the thuds of his heartbeat. If only he could replace that panic and dread inside her with love and trust. He vowed to himself that he would never again allow her to see his face. He would rather die before that mistake was repeated.

He let his eyes leave Christine and fall upon the mannequin and wedding dress before him. He had such hopes for them, such beautiful hopes. She had to be his. Without her love, he would not survive. Somehow, he had to prove to her that he needed her more than anything in the world. Then, and only then, could those beautiful hopes could be fulfilled.

He sang again, his voice clearer as he settled himself on the steps that led to his bed chamber. "Fear can turn to love; you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster, this…repulsive carcass who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly…oh, Christine."

He was spent, utterly and completely. Even with it pressed against his face, he could still feel the tremors in his hand. He drew a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, and then stretched his hand out in Christine's direction. She seemed to sense his need, and relinquished the mask without hesitation. For that, he was so incredibly grateful.

In a practiced move, he replaced his hand with the mask, and rose from the step. He stood over her, barely able to bring himself to look at her huddled form. This was the woman who had caressed him so lovingly just minutes before. He remembered the bliss he felt beneath her hand, remembered the aching pleasure she had brought him simply by touching his face. If she knew the power she had over him, she would have no reason to cower on the floor.

_But she has every reason to cower_, a sinister voice whispered. _You have shown her your wrath and your face._

He clenched his jaw at the voice, ignoring it for the moment. After he saw Christine safe, he would torture himself with memories of the tears he had placed in her eyes and on her cheeks. For now, he had other duties.

He held a hand out to help Christine rise from the floor. It was all he had to offer her.

"Come, we must return," he said, swallowing the contemptible quaver he still heard in his voice. "Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."


	19. Ghosts of the Present

His grandmére had a saying, one she repeated often: it's hell growing old. Raoul had always thought the expression an exaggeration, but now, as he whispered it to himself, he understood it was very much a reality.

Raoul's body was failing; he could feel it. He went about his day, fulfilling useless tasks and asking himself the same questions over and over again. _Is this the last time? Tonight, shall I pass on in my sleep?_

Perhaps it was morbid to spend his last days pondering death. But he felt ready for the grave, so very ready for this painful existence to be over. All life had left him two years ago, with the death of the Countess de Changy…or maybe it had left him years before that, in a dark, wet labyrinth. Whatever the case, the truth remained the same: he was not long for this world, and he was at peace with that notion. Almost. Only one thing remained for him to do before he submitted to the call of eternal slumber.

He settled himself deeper into the leather seat of his town car and watched children dart about in front of the Opera Populaire. His bleary eyes strained to discern a tall figure exiting the theatre. Her stately step identified her as Madame Giry. Raoul felt the weight of the music box in his lap, and again, soul-deep gratitude stirred him. . She had sacrificed so much for him, for all of them. She would never know what she had come to mean to him.

The familiar question surfaced, and an answer came, startling in its certainty. He would never see her again.

Ignoring the pain that made the old wound in his arm throb, he reached up and removed his hat, placing it over his chest. He met Madame Giry's eyes across the short distance, and dipped his head in utmost respect. He looked up to see her return the nod, her eyes gone soft around the corners.

The car lurched forward, and the Vicomte bid adieu to the Opera Populaire for the last time.


	20. Notes

Paris, France, 1870

What a glorious sight! Firmin dared the world to show him a better spectacle than the one before him. People milled about in front of the theatre, _his_ theatre, all eager to buy their tickets for the first opera available. The amount of money that Miss Daaé's singing had inspired people to spend was unfathomable.

The thought of Miss Daaé put a cloud of irritation over his otherwise euphoric mood. Blast it! Where was that infuriating girl? How dare she dash his hopes of becoming the richest man in Paris. She had disappeared last night, and no one seemed to know where she went—or why.

Firmin pushed through the crowds, waved off the bowing doormen, and thrust himself into the foyer of the Opera Populaire. He jerked off his overcoat and hat, handing them and his cane to the waiting footmen. The manager glared at the newspaper in his hand, and then handed it to the footman as well.

"'Mystery after gala night,' it says, 'Mystery of soprano's flight!'" Firmin's song was perturbed and not a little chagrinned. "'Mystified,' all the papers say, 'We are mystified, we suspect foul play!'"

He snorted as he climbed the sprawling staircase, stepping around maids on their hands and knees, scrubbing the ornate marble. "Bad news on soprano scene—first Carlotta, now Christine. Still, at least the seats get sold—gossip's worth its weight in gold…"

Firmin's song tapered off as he passed a gaudy statue on the landing. The golden sculpture of the naked woman seemed to mock him from behind her solid, still lips. _You're without a lead soprano,_ she seemed to say. _How will your greed be sated now?_ With a frown, he shrugged off the notion that somehow the effigy was his conscious and continued up the stairs.

"What a way to run a business! Spare me these unending trials. Half your cast disappears, but the crowd still cheers. Opera! To hell with Gluck and Handel, have a scandal and you're sure to have a hit!"

Firmin reached the top of the stairs and started down the long hallway when Andre appeared at his elbow. The man's color was high, and he carried an envelope, lined in black.

"Damnable! Will they all walk out? This is damnable!"

"Andre, please don't shout!" Firmin put a hand on his partner's shoulder and sang in a persuading tone. "It's publicity! And the take is vast—free publicity!"

"But we have no cast!" Andre squeaked a bit on the last note.

Firmin shook his head and drew a deep, calm breath. "Andre, have you seen the queue?" His eyes trailed down to the paper in Andre's hand. "Ah…it seems you've got one, too."

Andre drew the note from its envelope and held it aloft. "Dear Andre, what a charming gala. Christine was in a word, sublime. We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left—on that note, the Diva's a disaster. Must you cast her when she's seasons past her prime?"

Firmin recognized the sardonic tone of the note and drew his own black-bordered envelope from his breast pocket. "Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder. My salary has not been paid. Send it care of the Ghost, by return of post. P.T.O:—" he paused to flip the note over and read its reverse. "No one likes a debtor so it's better if my orders are obeyed!"

The two men looked at each other, incredulity masking their features. "Who would have the gall to send this?" they sang at the same time. "Someone with a puerile brain."

"These are both signed O.G.!" Firmin exclaimed, examining the notes.

Andre's brow wrinkled. "Who the hell is he?"

They spun on their heels to meet each other's eyes when the mutual realization came. "Opera Ghost!"

Firmin stepped over to the balustrade, watching the comings and goings below in the entryway. He gestured with a hand still clutching the note. "It's nothing short of shocking!"

Andre joined him and rested a hip on the railing. "He is mocking our position…"

"In addition he wants money." A note of wariness entered Firmin's tone at the mention of the Opera Ghost's salary.

"What a funny apparition—"

Firmin took the verse up with Andre. "—to expect a large retainer. Nothing plainer—he is clearly quite insane!"

Firmin and Andre weren't allowed to further establish the lunacy of the Opera Ghost, though. Their exchange was interrupted when the door opened to admit the Vicomte de Chagny.

"Where is she?" Raoul demanded.

Andre tipped his head to the side in puzzlement. "You mean Carlotta?"

Raoul looked up at them from beneath his brows. "I mean Miss Daaé—where is she?"

"Well how should we know?" Firmin spread his hands apart in an innocent gesture.

Shaking his head, Raoul started up the stairs. "I want an answer. I take it that you sent me this note?"

"What's all this nonsense?" Firmin prodded Andre and they headed to meet the Vicomte on the staircase.

Andre shot an indignant look at Raoul, clearly insulted by the idea of sending a note resembling anything like what they had received. "Of course not!"

"Don't look at us!" Firmin added, for good measure.

This gave Raoul some pause. "She's not with you then?"

"Of course not!" Firmin found himself echoing Andre's earlier declaration.

"We're in the dark…" Andre confessed.

With the grace borne of one well practiced in soothing those of less noble blood, Raoul raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Monsieur, don't argue—isn't this the letter you wrote?"

"And what is it that we're meant to have wrote?" Firmin realized his grammatical gaffe and corrected himself. "Written!"

Raoul heaved a weary sigh and offered the note to Andre. "Do not fear for Miss Daaé. The Angel of Music has her under his wing," the manager read. "Make no attempt to see her again."

Firmin exchanged looks with his partner and the Vicomte. The note was aloof, commanding, and in much too familiar of a tone to be comforting.

"Well, if you didn't write it, who did?" Raoul prompted.

Firmin drew a breath to answer, but before he could, he was cut off by a screeching voice.

"Where is he?" Carlotta, dressed in a full, sweeping fuchsia skirt and a low-cut bodice of purple, was trailed by Piangi and her various maids and servants as she stormed across the vestibule and up the staircase.

Andre made a little noise of shocked delight at Firmin's elbow. "Ah, welcome back!"

Carlotta was in no mood to be welcomed, though. She wanted answers, and she looked ready to murder in order to get them. "Your precious patron—where is he?"

"What is it now?" Raoul said, the irritation in his song clear.

"I have your letter—a letter which I rather resent." Carlotta waved a note in a gloved hand, making the feathers in her ostentatious hat flutter in sad imitations of the birds they once belonged to.

This was turning into a fine kettle of fish. What would he do if his scandal-causing—and thus money-making—soprano began a blood feud with his wealthy patron? Everyone clashed on the landing, and Firmin turned to the Vicomte. "And did you send it?"

"Of course not!" Raoul retorted, and Firmin's fears of warfare doubled.

"As if he would." Andre sounded much more confident than Firmin thought he should.

Carlotta glared, but her tone was softened by a drop of doubt. "You didn't send it?"

"Of course not!" Raoul repeated, frustration raising his pure tenor to a near shout.

Firmin balled his hands into fists, wishing that the situation would stop spiraling out of control—out of his control, that is. "What's going on?"

"You dare to tell me that this is not the letter you sent?" Carlotta brandished the note under Raoul's nose.

He plucked it from Carlotta's grasp and snapped it open, giving Carlotta a cold gaze. "And what is it that I'm meant to have sent?" He exhaled heavily through his noise and glanced at the note. "Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Christine Daaé will be singing on your behalf tonight."

"Christine Daaé!" Carlotta hissed, but Raoul read over her.

"Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place." Raoul folded the note, replaced it in its envelope, and looked up.

Firmin glanced from the Vicomte to Carlotta. The woman was positively iseething./i Her jaw was clenched in acrimony, and she curled the fingers of each gloved hand into tight, infuriated fists.

Shooting an urgent look at his partner, Firmin threaded his arm through Carlotta's while Andre did the same on the other side. They escorted her down the staircase and away from the Vicomte, lest the diva stain her furs with innocent blood.

Both the managers attempted to soothe Carlotta. "Far too many notes for my taste, and most of them about Christine. All we've heard since we came is Miss Daaé's name—"

"Miss Daaé has returned." The composed and dispassionate announcement, a contrast from the previous heated exchanges, came from Madame Giry. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, with her daughter, Meg, behind her.

Firmin shot a glance at Raoul, gauging him. "I hope no worse for wear as far as we're concerned."

Andre cut in. "Where precisely is she now?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "I thought it best she was alone—"

"—she needed rest." Meg added, her voice sweet and quiet, but every bit as persistent as her mother's.

"May I see her?" Raoul took a step, but Madame Giry held up a forbidding hand.

"No, Monsieur, she will see no one." It was completely apparent that the ballet mistress would not back down on this point.

Carlotta and Piangi glanced at each other, then at Madame Giry. "Will she sing, will she sing?"

With a quick flick of her eyes upward, she proffered a piece of paper. "Here. I have a note."

He found his own groan echoed by everyone else. Firmin, along with Andre, Carlotta, and Piangi, advanced toward her. "Let me see it!" They all cried.

There was a reason Firmin was manager, and it wasn't just for his good looks. Thinking quickly, or at least more quickly than the others, he added a hasty "Please!" and snatched the note up.

"Gentleman, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run," he read, sarcasm thick on his voice. "You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance."

As he read, a cold shiver ran down Firmin's spine. He could easily imagine exactly what the Opera Ghost—or whoever claimed to be their legendary haunter—had looked and sounded like when he penned this note. The Phantom would have had a smug smile planted firmly on his ghoulish face as he dipped his quill in an inkwell, perhaps by the light of a candle. He might have even spoken as he wrote, thinking aloud. His voice would be mocking, of course, mocking of Firmin and Andre and every other person the Phantom thought he had control of.

"Christine Daaé has returned to you and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of Il Muto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the pageboy, and put Miss Daae in the role of Countess.

"The role which Miss Daaé plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the pageboy is silent, which makes my casting, in a word, ideal.

"I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which iwill/i be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant. O.G."

Carlotta broke in as soon as Firmin finished reading the note. "Christine!"

Andre rubbed a wrinkled forehead. "Whatever next?"

"It's all a ploy to help Christine!" Carlotta started down the stairs, holding her heavy skirts out of the way.

A headache pounded in Firmin's temples. "This is insane!"

"I know who sent this," Carlotta snapped, and pointed a finger at Raoul. "The Vicomte—her lover."

"Indeed." Raoul raised an eyebrow at her, and then glanced at Firmin. "Can you believe this?"

The manager ignored him, his attention on more important matters than a Vicomte intent on defending his honor. "Signora!"

Carlotta led everyone on a winding path through the theatre, singing to herself in Italian. "O traditori!"

"This changes nothing!" said Andre, attempting to soothe her.

"O mentitori!" Carlotta sang, not hearing him.

Firmin felt like clapping his hands over his ears, but instead hastened to keep up with the prima donna. "Signora!"

Carlotta stomped into her dressing room and began tossing things at her servants to pack into her trunks.

"You are our star!" Andre insisted, panic rising in his tone.

"And always will be," Firmin confirmed, narrowly avoiding being hit in the head with a thrown shoe.

Andre began again. "Signora!"

Time was running out—Carlotta was almost finished packing. "The man is mad!" Firmin declared.

Andre nodded firmly. "We don't take orders."

It was time for Firmin to grasp the reins of this run-away horse. Who knew if Christine would be able to sing tonight? He knew Carlotta could—and would, if he could only convince her to stay. The risk of having to refund a full house outweighed whatever alleged disaster the Opera Ghost might conjure up. "Miss Daaé will be playing the pageboy—the silent role."

Andre looked over at Firmin, and helped him complete the rest of the announcement. "Carlotta will be playing the lead!"

Firmin braced himself for another round of groveling.


End file.
